


The Way of Handmade Things

by jemariel



Series: More Than I Hoped For [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Casturbation), Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Masturbation, Photographer Castiel, pining (kind of), sculptor Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 09:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15771153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: Dean’s hands have made many beautiful things. The wings of an angel, swan’s necks that contort into complex shapes, spikes of metal that pierce the heart. But as far as Cas is concerned, the most powerful thing he’s ever created is an unassuming pot-bellied mug.Contemplations of an artist.(Can be read as a stand-alone if you like.)





	The Way of Handmade Things

**Author's Note:**

> Told you I would come back to this series! Enjoy <3 Thanks to [Elanor-n-evermind](https://elanor-n-evermind.tumblr.com/) for the beta-read!
> 
> PS: I'm not trying to throw shade at photographers here, I promise.

Dean’s hands have made many beautiful things. The wings of an angel, swan’s necks that contort into complex shapes, spikes of metal that pierce the heart. But as far as Cas is concerned, the most powerful thing he’s ever created is an unassuming pot-bellied mug.

“For me?”

Dean’s blushes are precious, every one of them. This one has him scratching the back of his neck. “Um. Yeah. If you want it.”

It’s an odd gift, perhaps, but when Cas picks it up, instantly he feels a sense of rightness. Yes. It belongs to him. The gravid shape is soothing in his palms, the handle perfectly arched. Dean chose a bright turquoise glaze for the inside and a dark olive green outside, still a little rough. It’s a pleasing contrast, and Cas finds himself staring into the depths of the blue for longer than is probably polite to not say anything after receiving a gift.

“If you don’t want it, that’s fine, I just — I made it for a class and didn’t really know what to do with it, it’s been sitting in my cupboard for —”

When Dean reaches to take the mug back, Cas doesn’t want to let him take it. His hands tighten. “Thank you,” he says. “I — thank you.”

Dean grins then, the white rows of his teeth more enchanting than they should be. Cas likes making Dean smile. “Alright. Um.” Dean taps his pencil against the paper in front of him on the table, and Cas gets distracted by the movement of his fingers. “Studying?”

“Okay.”

~*~

Sculptor’s hands.

The mug is warm between Cas’s palms, almost too warm, but in the damp chill of November, it’s a small bead of comfort at his center. He inhales the steam off the top, richly scented with cinnamon and spices, and thinks about sculptor’s hands. Dean’s hands.

It’s ridiculous, really. There’s no reason why this mug should be any different from any other mug. But that’s the way of handmade things, isn’t it? They are made by hands, and so they are made for hands. Cas wonders if Dean still makes practical items like this or if he has moved on strictly to more artsy-art. It’s difficult to conceive of art that is more pure than this, though. Functional art that touches a person’s soul whenever they use it. Art that beautifies the everyday.

He can feel Dean’s hands in this mug. The slope from the full-rounded bottom to the narrower mouth precisely matches the curve of Dean’s thumb. Dean’s palm cupped the bowl while his fingertips hollowed out its belly, an intimate internal touch. Dean’s fingers here, pinching the handle into shape, or here, carving this divot where the handle meets the wall. No matter where Cas touches on this mug, Dean has touched before with care and creative intent.

Cas’s art does not leave physical impressions like this. He captures things, like lightning in a bottle, like butterflies under glass. He captures moments in time that will never come again. Rarely does he think of himself as a creator, more often as a seeker. He has done directed shoots, of course, where he tries to set up the shots he wants, but those frustrate him and never seem to come out right. His best work is done in the real world, when inspiration just happens around him and he’s quick enough to grab it.

Cas doesn’t really want to set down the mug, but he places it gently on the window sill, framed by white and gray and with the leaves of a browning oak outside. He considers the placement carefully, adjusting, turning, checking angles, before picking up his camera.

Several shots later, he’s not exactly thrilled with the results, but he had to try. When he picks up the mug again, the walls are still warm, but the tea inside is tepid. He frowns and drinks it anyway.

~*~

“You want to take pictures of my hands?”

Cas can’t tell if Dean sounds incredulous or embarrassed. Possibly both. “Yes. While you spin pottery.”

Dean blinks a bit while he considers that. “Yeah, sure, I guess. If you want. You think that would be interesting?”

Dean’s strong, careful fingers pinching the clay, molding it up and down. Shaping an ordinary lump into something beautiful, something useful. Something unique. The patience with which he must apply water so that the medium does not crack as he coaxes life from the earth. “Yes. I very much do.”

~*~

The pictures will be gorgeous. Dean makes a vase, a beautiful pear-shaped thing with a delicate neck. When Cas asks what color he’s going to glaze it, Dean just looks at him for a moment, then back down at the vase, still soft and fragile in her infancy. “I dunno,” he mutters. “What do you think?”

Cas considers for a moment, then says, “Yellow. It looks like it should have sunflowers in it, so. Yellow.”

Dean nods once. “Yellow it is.” 

Whatever color the vase will be, the photos will be in black and white. The shape of Dean’s hands deserves to be showcased without the distraction of color, the focus on the contrast of light and shadow and the way the clay cakes and drips over the lines of his knuckles.

That will come when he develops them, though. For now, Cas is distracted. Back in his dorm room, he sets his camera bag down at the foot of his bed and falls onto the blankets on his back, rubbing his palm over the swelling of his groin with a long-held groan. He’d been half-hard through most of the photo session, trying desperately not to let Dean notice. Not that he would have been offended, certainly, even if they’ve so far skirted around the fact that the first time they met they got each other off on a rooftop. It will happen again if it’s meant to.

But this obsession with Dean’s hands is becoming problematic. He can’t help it. Dean’s hands are the soul of who he is, and who he is is beautiful. Cas wants them on his body again, but now that he’s seen them at their art, now that he knows more of who Dean is as a human, it almost seems like sacrilege.

So he settles for his own. He tugs off his shirt and lets his fingers find all the spots that he knows are sensitive — just here on his neck, the curve under his ribs, his collarbone, the centerline of his stomach. All the while he closes his eyes and remembers Dean’s hands molding the spinning clay, slick and raw, firm and totally in control. He shivers, and his hands wander further.

Where would Dean like to be touched, Cas wonders. His fingertips brush his own nipples, never very sensitive but Dean seems the type. He pinches the nub until it hurts a little, and even that feels good when he pictures Dean under his touch. All pink-flush pretty, whether he wants to admit it or not. He wonders if Dean likes to be handled gently or rough. Wonders if he’ll get the chance to try both and see for himself. 

When he shucks his jeans, his cock is already up and curving toward his belly, but he still ignores it for the moment. He caresses his groin, scraping through the wiry hairs, pressing down at the base of his erection, stimulating the root. He reaches to cup his balls, rolling them, stretching the skin out; spreads his legs to massage the space behind, reaching just as far as his tender opening.

God. If Dean touched him there.

A bolt of pleasure shoots up his aching prick, and with a bitten lip and a whine, he lets himself stroke up the shaft. He’s hard as iron, hot as a kiln, and when he slides the foreskin up over his swollen crown, it smears the few drops of precome that have gathered there. Like dribbles of earthy water making rivulets over strong fingers — 

It barely takes a dozen hard strokes, and Cas seizes up with his climax, shooting over his belly in long, aching pulses. He draws it out as much as he can, getting his flesh and fingers all sticky with his release, licking the saltiness from them, wondering how it would taste on Dean’s skin.

From that day on, though Dean’s mug remains by far his favorite, he can’t drink from it without suffering impure thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr! You can reblog the [Series Master Post](https://jemariel.tumblr.com/post/181956602266/more-than-i-hoped-for-on-ao3-rating-mostly) if you feel so inclined.


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